Drowse
by Jadewing47
Summary: It was true that Boris could be rather unpredictable, but the two boys had fallen into some resemblance of a routine over the past few months, and Theo had grown to know him as a little bit of an early bird. But today, it takes Theo forever to wake Boris who is red-nosed and feverish. He wished he'd made Boris stay home before he got worse.
1. Chapter 1

A sharp, persistent beeping sound echoed throughout the room, messy and dark, with two schoolbags tossed beside the door, books and empty beer bottles resting in the corners, dirty clothes tossed in piles around the bed. A window across from the bed was cracked slightly, letting in a slight breeze that aired out the room, which smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol. A worn pair of black, steel-toed combat boots sat at the foot of the bed alongside a pair of sand-stained black converse with the laces frayed at the ends. On the nightstand rested a black alarm clock, the culprit responsible for the sound that had now turned to shrill whines. The numbers, still glowing faintly from the shade of the room, read 6:18 am. Next to the alarm clock sat a pair of brown, circular glasses, a few black leather bracelets, and a small bottle of black nail polish.

Theodore Decker, dressed in a pair of blue pajama pants with little red rockets and Boris' black t-shirt with the three cat faces decorating it, moaned as he stretched out a freckled arm and slammed his hand down on the 'snooze' button. The whining immediately ceased, leaving the room in peaceful silence. Theo sighed, pulling his arm back under his pillow and shifting slightly to face Boris, who had apparently, at some point during the night, buried himself underneath the covers, with only the top of his head adorned with wild black curls poking out.

It was true that Boris could be rather unpredictable, but the two boys had fallen into some resemblance of a routine over the past few months, and Theo had grown to know him as a little bit of an early bird: rising not soon after the beep of the alarm and rousing Theo, who was most definitely _not_ an early bird, from his slumber, handing him Advil and popping a few of the tablets himself, (most days) slipping into new clothes (usually) and lacing up his beloved boots all while Theo slowly gathered the will to rise from the bed. If they had time, Boris would often start the kettle, boiling tea for Theo and himself and they would sip on that quietly, enjoying the silence they shared until one of them would curse loudly, having just checked the time, and soon they would be scrambling for their bags, searching the floor and table for keys, giving a few soft pat's to Popper's head, and racing out the door for the bus.

Today though, Boris seemed content with sleeping in, silent and still. When the beeping of the alarm clock returned at 6:30 am, Theo moaned again, reaching over to turn it off and flipping over on his back. He rubbed his eyes, blindly fumbling for his glasses as he debated whether or not he wanted to make the effort of going to school. They were often absent, for various different reasons, and Theo sometimes worried that one day some staff member would come knocking on his door and send both Boris and him off to some shelter, as neither of their fathers were even half-way decent in taking care of them. Sighing, Theo nudged Bori's shoulder, earning a small whine from the black-haired boy as he shifted slightly, revealing more of his messy curls.

"Wake up, Boris," Theo called, "We're gonna be late again," Boris whined again, and Theo took that to mean he was awake, sliding off the bed and snatching up a pair of black pants from the floor, walking off to the bathroom to get ready. Dressed, he stumbled down the stairs, pouring a generous amount of dog kibble into Popper's bowl after letting him outside to relieve himself, pocketing his keys, (which were on the counter) and started the kettle. He took Boris' favorite red mug from the sink along with his own blue one, giving them a quick wash and setting cinnamon tea bags into both. When he didn't hear any movement from upstairs, Theo grew suspicious and made the treck back to his room, Popper trailing at his heels. Boris was exactly where he'd left him, curled up in a ball underneath the covers, his hair blowing just slightly from the breeze outside.

"Boris," Theo called, nudging his shoulder. He received no response, and rolled his eyes, reaching out with his foot and kicking Boris gently.

_5 minutes later,_

"What the fuck?" Boris yelped, raising his head from the covers and squinting at his friend, "What the hell are you doing?" He flipped over to his back and groaned as he stretched, cat-like and beautiful.

"Well, if you'd woken up properly the first time I kicked you, I wouldn't have had to do it four more times," Theo said smugly, smirking as he rolled his eyes.

"Fuck off Potter," Boris snapped, a bite in his tone that Theo had never heard before.

"Calm down, we were gonna be late if I didn't wake you up," Theo retorted, hurt slightly from whatever foul mood Boris had woken up in. He huffed, sitting up with a wince. Boris had fallen asleep in his clothes, a faded-black band t-shirt, and black cargo pants. He slipped into his combat boots, leaning over to tie the laces and snatch up a black zip-up hoodie from the floor. Theo rolled his eyes, retreating down the stairs to grab the screaming kettle from the stove and poured the boiling water into the mugs. Boris came stumbling down the stairs shortly after, his backpack dangling from his arm. He dropped it next to Theo's bag and all but threw himself into his chair at the kitchen table, burying his face into his arms, only to raise it back up again when Theo cautiously pushed a mug towards his arm.

"Thanks," Boris mumbled, swiping at his nose with his sleeve before taking a long sip and sighing. Theo peered at him, head tilted slightly.

"You look like shit," he said, and Boris did. His face was paler than usual, making him look almost dead, and accentuating his dark circles. His nose was red along with his eyes, rimmed with color and watery. He looked feverish, but when Theo reached over to place his hand on Boris' forehead he found it strangely cool. Boris leaned into his touch, before pulling away suddenly to cough.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, bringing my hand back to my mug. He gave a bright, very Russian-accented shrug. "Just a cold," he assured me. I was about to ask him if he wanted to stay home when Boris glanced at the wall-clock in the living room, a scratchy curse exploding from his mouth before he grabbed my arm, yanking me off my chair and nearly spilling my half-drunken tea and dragging me to the door, scooping up our bags on the way and his black umbrella. "Blyat we are late," he mumbled, coughing into his arm as we raced out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

_Theo's POV_

The ride to school was as quiet as a school bus could be, save for the slight wheezing sounds Boris' was making every time he took in a breath. I offered to carry his things for him but he refused and despite my attempts to slow him down as we ran towards the bus stop (_We're absent all the time! It won't matter if we miss it!_) he insisted that we ran. To be fair we arrived just as the bus did, which was lucky, and the driver usually waited around the stops a few minutes to give people extra time to appear, redfaced, huffing and puffing; a phenomenon that had been foreign to me when I'd first arrived here, perfectly accustomed to the hustle and bustle of New York where often the buses would simply pretend you didn't even exist. I sat by the window, as usual, Boris plopping down next to me and immediately coughing before resting his head on the back of the seat in front of us.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, my hand ghosting over his back, not quite sure how to help him. He nodded, grinning at me as he leaned back. "Told you Potter, is nothing!" he exclaimed, and I gave him what must have been a very unconvincing smile in return for he added, "I'm fine," before we lapsed back into silence.

* * *

We didn't share most of our classes together. The day was divided up into six classes, each forty-five minutes long. Boris and I shared our math, history, and literature classes, and the rest was spent separated. In the classes I didn't spend with Boris I focused on making mental checklists of what food and medical supplies we had in my house. I tried my best to recall how much money we had left between us and wondered if it was worth making the miles-long trek out in the sand to catch the poky local bus and spend ten bucks on cheap cough medicine that most likely wouldn't work. During math, history, and literature the sound of my teacher's dull babbling was drowned out of my ears by my hyperawareness of every sniffle, wheeze, and suppressed cough he made. No one else appeared to show much concern for my friend, though to be fair Boris was doing an awfully good job hiding his discomfort. I might not have noticed had he not acted oddly that morning. Even so, I knew myself to be an anxious person, most likely overreacting because of my friend's simple cold. We both smoked way too many cigarettes and drank way too much alcohol, took way too many drugs, and neither our sleeping nor eating habits were to be proud of. It was bound for us to get sick at some point. I had already gotten a cold a month or so previous, and ever caring Boris had dragged me out to the discount supermarket and shoplifted me cold medicine, which didn't make a difference but the gesture was still heartwarming.

* * *

Seeing Boris at lunch had quickly convinced me to squash my persistent worries of his health. He was nursing a bottle of water, a rare sight to see, but it dramatically cleared the scratch in his voice and had seemed to reawaken him somewhat. He plopped down across from me on one of the circular black tables outside, the breeze tousling his curls. It was fall, and although during the colder months in Las Vegas the temperature did not drop much below 50 degrees throughout the day, the night could become frigid. I enjoyed the breeze, despite the countless times in which it had blown sand into my eyes, providing a small relief from the usual unbearable heat of summer, and somehow most importantly for the almost artistic way it made Boris' hair dance. He had a familiar spark in his eyes that suggested we were about to embark on some random politically-infused conversation. Boris was much more passionate about the flaws of America than I was, and I often had little to add to these conversations, but I loved the way his eyes lit up, the way his facial expressions grew more pronounced, the way his hands would make wild gestures in the air as he talked; so I entered them quite frequently. My earlier worrying about whether or not we had enough money to buy cough syrup had planted a seed of doubt about our financial situation. Of course, I still had my money from the doorman, which Boris and I spent very carefully, and it would hold out for a while, but not forever. My father would often randomly hand Boris and I fat wads of cash, and Boris was an experienced shoplifter, but the fact that we couldn't depend on these things made me uneasy.

*"Maybe we should go down to the Strip sometime," I said, interrupting Boris', who had been lecturing me on the horrors of America's foods. He stopped talking; he looked rather shocked.

"And why should we? When so easy to steal here, from big stores!"

"Just saying." I worried my lip. I'd quite frankly expected Boris to jump at the suggestion.

"Ha! And what will I do if you are arrested, Potter?" he said, tilting his head up at me curiously. "Who will cook the dinner? And who will look after Snaps?"

"Seriously, Boris," I said, pushing the hair from my eyes. "I don't see much difference in stealing wallets and stealing steaks."

"_Big _difference, Potter." He held his hands apart to show me just how big. "Stealing from working person? And stealing from big rich company that robs the people?"

"Costco doesn't rob the people. It's a discount supermarket."

"Fine then. Steal essentials of life from private citizen. This is your so-smart plan."

"I wouldn't steal from some poor working person," I said, "There are plenty of sleazy people walking around Vegas with wads of cash."

"Sleazy?"

"Dodgy. Dishonest."

"Ah." The pointed dark eyebrow went up. "Fair enough. But if you steal money from sleazy person, like gangster, they are likely to hurt you, _nie_?" I blinked, confused as though why he was asking me that. In the Ukraine, he'd told me, he'd sometimes picked pockets for money to eat. "Got chased, once or twice," he'd said. "Never caught, though."

"You weren't scared of getting hurt in Ukraine?"

He shrugged. "Beaten up, maybe. Not shot."

"Shot?"

"Yes, _shot._ Don't look surprised. This cowboy country, who knows? Everyone has guns."

"I'm not saying a cop. I'm saying drunk tourists. The place is crawling with them Saturday night."

"Ha! Likely you will end up in jail, Potter. Loose morals, slave to economy. very bad citizen, you."* He left me with that, the bell ringing to signal the end of lunch. I rolled my eyes, half-heartedly punching him in the shoulder as we parted ways. He did have a point though. He always had a point.

_* Adapted from The Goldfinch, by Donna Tart. _


	3. Chapter 3

With all our half-bickering at lunch, Boris' clearer voice and less flushed cheeks, I had finally managed to squish my anxiety as far away from me as I could. My knee wasn't bouncing crazily, my palms weren't clammy, my forehead wasn't sweaty, and my heartbeat didn't feel like it was throbbing throughout my entire body. My last class of the day was with Boris, and since I sat in the adjacent row a seat above him, I was glad I could calm my racing nerves enough that he couldn't see. Boris always seemed to somehow know, regardless of my hitched breaths or panicked drumming of my fingers, if I was getting anxious, and while it was comforting to know that he could always calm me down when I needed, my cheeks felt hot at the thought of him knowing I was having anxiety about his cold.

Our English class was one of the more mind-numbingly boring forty-five-minute stretches of the day, a stuffy classroom packed with idiotic kids who didn't give a care in the world for literature, thinking that what they said was smart but ending up sounding somehow even stupider. Our teacher, Mrs. Spear, was a frail-looking woman who wore plain colors and looked as though she suffered from major depression, but as much as she was a pitying sight, she was just as stupid as the rest of her class. We were reading Walden, a cooler, silent book.

I had enjoyed the peaceful escape from the unrelenting confusion, stress, and heat that had consumed my mind for the first month of my life in Vegas, but now I found the book bland, colorless, nothing compared to the darker slur of Slavic roots consuming Boris' voice as he read to me in Russian from The Idiot, pausing to explain things to me in English, and decorating his words with wild hand gestures and expressions. Sometimes when I would awaken from a particularly bad nightmare, or when I was too restless to fall asleep, Boris would lean up against the headboard, pulling me close to him to that my head rested on his lap and our legs tangled together, and he would read to me until I fell asleep.

He would spend as long a time as I needed, once reading to me for two whole hours, until my eyes would flutter closed and my breaths evened out. Then he'd switch out the light and pull the covers close to us, encircling me in his arms and falling asleep with his head resting on my shoulder; a common scene for me to awaken to in the morning.

Boris' interjections in English were had what originally drawn us together, and had continued to amuse me throughout our shared classes. He mutters a half-hearted "twat" and "idiot" here and there, but they lack the passion that they usually held. My anxiety begins to climb again, and I glance back at him a few times during class, taking into account his flushed cheeks and slumped position on his seat, staring at his desk.

He caught my eyes on him once and almost immediately seemed to straighten, smirking at me and rolling his eyes as another girl in the front spews out some useless bullshit, and I look away after returning his smile, knowing that he was putting on a face for me. I instead direct my attention to the clock hanging above Mrs. Spear's head, ten more minutes to go, come on, come on, hurry up, come on, I focus on the clock, which seems to be moving at an agonizingly slow pace, willing it to move forward quicker.

Ten minutes feel like twenty before the bell rings and students swarm out of the building like ants. I make my way to Boris's side as quickly as I can and frown when he sways slightly as he stands.

"Are you okay?" I ask for the third time that day, and nods vigorously, quickly deciding that was a bad idea as he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Am fine Potter, I tell you is just a cold," he assures me. I don't believe him, but there's nothing I can really do except follow him to the bus.

We both clamber to the front of the big yellow school bus, Boris sliding in my usual seat by the window and me right next to him. Boris is sweating, and he quickly stands to crack the window, before all but collapsing back into his seat. I can't help but frown, resisting the urge to place my hand on his forehead as I know he would probably protest to that.

Our ride isn't short but I know I could be worse, and I was no stranger to commuting. Perhaps five minutes into the ride though, Boris moans softly before burying his head onto my shoulder, practically curling up in my side.

At the beginning of our friendship, I had been a bit startled when Boris had first flung an arm around me and pressed his forehead to mine, a gesture that would later become one of our secret codes for, It's okay, I'm here, but now I was plenty used to it, and only wrapped an arm around his shoulder to make things a bit more comfortable and to secure him on the seat, as he seemed to be trying to fall asleep and the road was far from smooth.

Boris was a rather touchy person, always hugging or cuddling or hitting or kissing, but it was rare for him to demonstrate such vulnerability in a public setting, and even so, he liked to pretend he was some unbreakable force, often neglecting his own needs for mine; so alongside his clear illness, I was concerned.

"Boris, are you sure-" he cut me off with a light punch to my arm, and although he didn't open his eyes I saw his lips curl up slightly in a smile. "Am fine Potter, just tired, yes?" he said softly.

It was true that we had stayed up rather late into the night, drinking ourselves silly and sitting at the edge of the pool with our legs dangling in cool water. A sudden image of Boris, head tilted to look up at the stars, pale porcelain skin almost glowing in the moonlight, flooded my memory.

I sat there then, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the sprinkle of freckles adjourning his cheeks like scattered glitter, his dark eyelashes fluttering every time he blinked behind closed eyes, the chapped skin of his lips. My cheeks burned as I realized I was staring at his lips. I often watched him when he would doze off in my arms while watching a movie, the perfect sharp angles of his jaw, his prominent cheekbones, his beautiful curls that became fluffy when he washed them. Vodka does odd things. I would tell myself as I traced circles on his back, smiling softly when he made happy hums in his sleep or muttered in gentle Russian. But now I did not have the drowsy haze of alcohol to excuse my feelings.


	4. Chapter 4

From the bus stop to my house was a fifteen-minute walk with the bright Nevada sun beating down on us. It helped that the temperature was not unbearable and the breeze was still blowing every so often, but I could tell the walk was difficult for Boris. We walked side-by-side, closer than usual as I was afraid he might topple over at any second. Our closeness only meant that I heard every breath he took, scratchy sounds in his throat that shouldn't be there. His cheeks were still flushed, and his eyes looked odd, almost shiny and unfocused. His forehead glistened with sweat and the exhaustion was visible in his face.

The third time that Boris swayed, and my hand had darted out ready to catch him, I halted. He stopped too, turning to face me with confusion in his eyes. Now stopped, his chest was heaving with each breath and he was trembling just slightly.

"Okay, hold on," I said, shrugging my backpack off one shoulder to find the Gatorade bottle I'd bought from the 7-eleven just across the street from the school. I was glad I'd taken it, purchasing the blue Glacier Freeze flavor as that was the one Boris' eyes had landed on. I unscrewed the cap and handed it to him, the bottle cool on my fingertips. "You look thirsty," I said with a small shrug, knowing that was probably the only way I would get Boris to drink it. We were almost to my house, a few blocks of empty beige houses left to go; I could address Boris' denial of his obvious illness once he was safe at home. But Boris surprised me by his lack of protest, taking the bottle and greedily gulping half of it down before I could stop him. I rolled my eyes as I took the bottle away, capping it. "You're gonna make yourself sick if you drink that fast." I scolded him gently. He only rolled his eyes and started back on the path home. The drink seemed to help, as he didn't stumble the rest of the way back and I allowed my shoulders to relax slightly, no longer terrified that he would blackout in the middle of the desert.

Instead, he chose to blackout in my room.

It happened rather suddenly, and I cursed myself for not paying better attention to Boris, but I'd turned my back to him to shut the door of my room behind me (a habit I'd never been able to shake even though we were alone in the house) and turned only to watch as he crumpled to his knees, his head slamming against the edge of my bed and his arms flopping uselessly at his sides; not even attempting to brace his fall.

For a second my world tilted as ice-cold panic flashed through me, my limbs frozen and my mouth parted open until I surged forward, crashing to my knees beside him and rolling him onto his back. My hands shook at the sight of crimson blood beginning to trickle out of a large gash on his temple and my voice sounded small and terrified as I called his name.

Boris' eyes cracked open rather quickly and he squinted up at me in apparent confusion.

"Mmm, what happened?" his words slurred slightly and he leaned almost entirely on me as I helped him to a sitting position.

"Y-you passed out," I told him, my voice still shaking, "You hit your head when you fell,"

"Mhm," was his only response. I looped my arms under his and pulled him up and onto my bed, taking off his combat boots and switching his sweaty sweater for a band t-shirt. He let himself go limp as I fussed over him, drawing the blankets to his chin and turning off the lights.

"You need to sleep Boris," I said in the most commanding tone I could muster.

"Mm, bossy you," was all he muttered before his eyes drifted shut.


End file.
